The mental side of my silence

Climbing my eyes

while filling mornings

the sorrow and the noise

one kind of space

this language ghostly

shaped as burned bones.

Imaginary numbers building

an orange waterfall of feelings

like a sun exploding in sunrise

or the first step of the light

when the light was born.

Under the skin, my skin,

a flagrant tactic’s book

conquering thoughts a

marked alphabet named whisper

of pain and dysfunction.

Do I survive the tremendous episode

of being a turnable figure of western culture?

I’m not a figure, I’m caos, I’m a single eternity

puzzle abandoned to the flow of the holly blood

meaningless fire’s manantial: this inner universe

this inner sun, becoming black and white noise

as an early XX century photography. And there,

where the island of memories arise and modeled

a turning ashes soul, my name is closed because is broke.

Inside this budget of tragedy the gray instant spoke inmaterial.

 

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